Resonance
by Lambent Flame
Summary: When Mr. Burns meets Waylon Smithers, Sr. at Springfield University, they develop an enduring friendship... and a one-sided infatuation. Their partnership proves profitable, but when desires for affection and affluence compete, tough decisions must be made and bitter regrets be endured.
1. Chapter 1

**Resonance**

 **Chapter One**

For Charles Montgomery Burns, the summer of 1926 had proven as capricious and treacherous as the waters of the North Sea. His postwar sojourn in Europe had brought him both great joy and bitter resentment. After he and Lyla had parted ways, he had roamed across Europe, looking for good times and, for the most part, finding them. His beautiful cousin, bless her heart, had been too good for him. Not in the self-deprecatory sense, but rather in the sense that she had been too good to appeal to him any longer. Yet still... she had been so beautiful, and their parting had left him with a stomach churning more wretchedly than the Spanish flu that had stricken him the year prior to their meeting.

But that was the last time his partner's failing was being _too good_ for him.

His discovery of the exquisite decadence of Berlin nightlife acted as a salve to his wounded heart, and after a few dismal encounters with prostitutes left him feeling ever more ensconced in spiritual solitude, he sought to mine the city of its myriad offerings of giddy thrills until the yearning in his bosom was sated. He became a fixture in the audiences of cabarets, frequently flirting with the performers but never making a serious attempt to seduce them.

He had several casual flings with women and dispensed with them just as easily. He rarely made the effort to chase women, but nevertheless, they seemed to regularly fall into his lap as though he were the positive ion to her electron. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

Amid his many excursions to clubs of all sorts, he came upon a few catering to a different sort of clientele than he was accustomed to fraternizing with. One night, he stepped into Schwenkzeit, one such club populated almost entirely by men. It was not his first visit, as he had gone a couple of times in the last few months, but it was the first visit he resolved to make conversation with a fellow patron rather than keep to a corner, drinking and observing and curtly brushing off anyone who approached him.

He began the night as he had begun every night there – sitting at the bar nursing a martini, scoping out his surroundings with surreptitious glances between staring at his drink, when he spied across the room a svelte man in his early twenties with golden brown hair, cropped close to his scalp and the nape of his neck save the two long tresses of his bangs. He didn't avert his eyes fast enough, and the man took notice of Burns and smiled. Too late to look away, he maintained eye contact and flashed a roguish smile.

The man approached him and sat beside him, and Burns felt his chest quiver.

"May I buy you a drink?" said the young man in fluent German.

"Yes," he responded, also in German, albeit with an increasingly obvious American accent. "So, are you from Berlin?" The bartender brought out another martini, and the German man paid for it.

"No, Potsdam." He sipped his own drink. "And you are American?" Burns nodded. "Where in America are you from?"

"I've lived many places. The north, the south, the east, the west."

"I've seen you here a few times before. I assure you, there's no need to be shy. We Germans are not so prudish as you Americans."

"I am not shy! I am..."

"Inexperienced?"

"No. At boarding school, I had some experiences."

"I see. Tell me – what is your name?"

"Monty."

"Tell me, Monty – have you kissed a man before?"

"No, eh – what is your name?"

"Engelbert."

They sat in silence for a moment until Burns said with indignant insistence, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

Not even looking at him, Burns casually sipped his drink and said, "Aren't you going to kiss me?"

"I will now." He set Burns' martini back on the counter mid-sip and kissed him. Burns' eyes went as wide as they could go, his shoulders tensing up as he held his breath. "How did you like your first homosexual kiss?"

"It wasn't my first." He sipped his martini. "My first was much better."

"But you said –"

"I lied. But this is true: Cole Porter is better at kissing than you."

"How is this?" He kissed Burns again, this time much more passionately as he ran his hands up and down his back, sending tingles down his spine.

"Better."

"Let me take you home, and I will show you how much better I can do." Seeing the uncertainty in Burns' eyes, he said, "I want you, Monty."

"Let's go." With that, they walked out of the establishment and to Engelbert's flat for the first of many trysts.

"Möchten Sie gerne etwas trinken?"

"Huh?" He rubbed his eyes. He had fallen asleep on a recreational chair on the luxury ocean liner deck again, dreaming of his nights in Berlin. Those wonderful, miserable nights. He blinked his eyes open and shut a few times, then turned to the ship steward and said, "Ich hätte gern einen Cognak."

"Sonst noch etwas?"

"Nein, nein." As he waved him away, he lifted up to his face the book he'd left open against his chest. _The Wealth of Nations_. Surely, it was no more interesting a tale than the wealth of Burns, but his grandfather had always badgered him to study economics and had often lambasted him for his improvidence, of which his years gallivanting about Europe, spending but not earning, leading the life of the idle rich, was a prime example. If he demonstrated a keen understanding of capitalistic principles, surely he would regain some esteem in his grandfather's eyes.

It was unlike him to postpone a task he'd set for himself, but the events of the last few years had preoccupied his attention.

 _Berühr mich._

 _Yes. I'll touch you._

It had been so good. Why was it that all the best fruit was destined to rot?

 _Gib mir das Geld, und ich werde niemand sagen._

 _Take it. You've already taken everything from me that mattered. What's a thousand dollars?_

He shut his eyes again, straining to keep a tear from escaping. _Damn you, Engelbert. Damn you, Germany. Damn you, Lyla. Damn you, France. Damn you, futile dreams of sweet romance._

No. Monty Burns would follow in his grandfather's steps and be a great tycoon, not some idle, empty-headed elite chasing childish dreams of love. He was thirty-two years old, for heaven's sake – much too old to lead such a frivolous lifestyle. He stuck his nose back in _Wealth of Nations_ and read until he finished twelve hours later.

When the ship docked in New York Harbor the next morning and he traversed the gangway from ship to shore, he stopped briefly, removed a sepia-toned photograph of Engelbert from his jacket pocket, and tore it up, letting the pieces fall to the waters below as a final farewell to his six years of travel abroad.


	2. Chapter 2

**Resonance**

 **Chapter Two**

Two years had passed since Mr. Burns had returned to the United States, to Springfield, and procured a coal plant that drove his grandfather's atom smashing venture out of business by ruthlessly underselling him. _To think he dared deride my business acumen all those times, and now it is I who have, in a mere two years, supplanted him as Springfield's resident energy mogul._ He snickered with a superior smirk. _Just you wait, son,_ his grandfather had admonished, _and you'll see! Atom smashing is the future of energy._

Monty Burns narrowed his eyes. "In a pig's eye!" He walked the steps up Springfield University, where he was to do his community service for crippling an Irishman by running over him with his car, which he'd talked down – with what else but money? – from a year in jail to volunteering at a soup kitchen, which he'd then talked down with a few hundred more dollars to tutoring at the university. He would tutor the students in business and elementary chemistry.

Most students sought him for business tutoring, as that was clearly his area of expertise, whereas he had done very little with chemistry in the last fourteen years. As the weeks passed, more students came to him for help, and despite his tendency to lose his temper and insult them, students kept coming back for his skill and the hope of developing a personal connection that would prove useful in getting a foot in the door later.

As he dismissed his last student of the day and prepared his bag to head home, a young man knocked at his door. "Oh, for heaven's sake, it's 6:45!" _Perhaps I should have stuck to ladling soup for the dregs of society, after all._ He twisted the knob sharply and threw the door open. "Your beleaguered teacher is done for the day; go home!" He then saw that it wasn't one of his imbecilic pupils, but rather a boy he'd never seen before, and a rather striking one at that. His chestnut hair curled beautifully, elegantly, around his forehead and the side of his head, a long lock of wavy hair kissing the upper rim of the young man's spectacles, which he pushed up his nose, the frame meeting his thick, inviting eyebrows.

"Sorry, sir; I don't mean to keep you, I just –"

"No, no, it's quite all right, my boy; I didn't mean to yell at you – I mean, had I known it was you, I wouldn't have – who are you, by the way?"

"My name is Waylon. Waylon Smithers."

"Waylon. A rather unusual name, yes?" As Waylon opened his mouth, unsure how to reply, Burns added, "I like it."

"Oh – thank you, sir. In any event, I know you're on your way out, but I didn't come here for a last minute study session. I came here to schedule one a week or two from now."

"No, it's no trouble. Ask me now."

"I wouldn't want to be an imposition."

"You aren't here to ingratiate yourself with me like those shameless social-climbers, are you?"

"No, not at all."

"I didn't think so. Now, what is your question?"

"Well..." He opened his chemistry book where he'd placed a bookmark. "I'm having a little trouble with this reaction." He showed the book to Mr. Burns. "I don't understand how or why it will proceed."

He scrutinized the text, then said, "Aha! Recall that zinc forms amphoteric oxides, and you have your answer."

His eyes brightened. "Oh! Of course!" He took out a paper from the folder in his hand and wrote down a chemical equation, then showed it to him. "Is this correct, sir?"

Smiling, he said, "Indeed, it is."

"Thank you very much for your help, Mr. Burns."

"You've a quick wit, Waylon. Tell me, what career do you intend to pursue?"

"Well, I haven't committed myself yet, but I want to go into chemistry or physics."

"You certainly have the brains for it, provided you continue to apply yourself."

"I guess you'll want to get going," he said, turning toward the door.

"No, don't go!"

"That's right, you still have my textbook. That would have been foolish of me," he said, reaching for his textbook, but Burns brought it up to his face and looked again at the book, flipping through the pages as he walked away from Waylon and toward his desk. "Which course did you say you were taking?"

"General Chemistry."

"This is material your class won't be covering for months."

"Yes, well, I like to work ahead so I know I'm prepared."

He slowly shut the book and handed it back to him. "You have done something rare. Do you know what that thing is?"

"Uh, I suppose I –"

"You have _impressed_ me." He grabbed his sweater off the back of his chair and lifted his bag to his shoulder. "Come with me. We'll dine together."

"Excuse me?"

"You have a rare combination of talent and character, and I wish to cultivate it."

"Thank you, sir. They're serving fish fry tonight at the cafeteria, and that's my favorite."

"Oh, no," said Mr. Burns, chortling. "We're not dining in that flea-infested peasant trough, my dear boy. I'm taking you somewhere nice." He led Waylon to his limousine, letting him in first, then sitting beside him in the passenger seat. "Have you dined on fine French cuisine?"

"No, sir, I haven't."

"Well, you're about to. Warren, take us to Décadence." Once they arrived, the host seated them at Burns' favorite table, and the waiter handed them two menus written entirely in French. They looked over the menus, and Mr. Burns said, "I'll have escargots de bourgogne with a glass of pinot gris, and he'll have canard à l'orange with a glass of pinot noir."

"Mr. Burns, that's very generous, but I can't have wine."

"What the devil do you mean, you can't have wine?"

"I'm sixteen, sir."

He stared blank-faced for a moment, then said, "He's with Monty Burns. Bring the wine."

"Yes, sir," said the waiter, taking their menus and leaving them.

"'Can't have any wine,' honestly. You're more a man than a boy, and sixteen-year-olds in France take wine with their every meal, and besides, there's no point in me paying for you to indulge in fine French cuisine if you're not going to have any wine with it." The waiter set glasses of water upon the table. "So, sixteen, eh? And already a college man."

"When I was laid up with polio last year, I studied the high school curriculum. By the time I'd recovered, I was able to pass the high school examination, so I didn't see the point in waiting to start college."

"Smart lad. What would be the point, indeed? That was my thought as well. You see, I started at Yale when I was sixteen."

"You went to Yale?"

"Yes."

"My father went to Yale."

"He did? What's his first name?"

"Ellsworth. Ellsworth Rolla Smithers."

"You mean, you're Elzy's son?"

"You knew him?"

"Not very well, but our paths did cross. He was a very serious, studious man. Entirely self-taught prior to Yale, apart from his parents teaching him how to read. He didn't even have one private tutor!" _He was nowhere near as striking as yourself, though._ "Tell me more about yourself."

Waylon began talking about the books he liked, the games he played, the music he enjoyed, and Burns attended as carefully as he could past the roaring of his own intruding thoughts. _I can't take my eyes off of him. He's like Michelangelo's_ David _. So stunningly beautiful, as if a sculptor set out to mold the ideal male form. Yet, like a priceless vase – or a conflagration – I fear to touch him._ He felt a profound urge to tell the young man how eye-catching he was, but such words simply weren't exchanged between men.

Their food arrived, and Waylon said, "But enough about me, sir. I'm sure you've led a fascinating life."

"Well, having such wealth as I do does afford one many opportunities for adventure. Have you ever been on safari?" Waylon shook his head. "It's a great thrill, but you must watch out for those hippopotami. They are deadlier than the ferocious lion." He took a few bites, then, inspecting his nails in a haughty gesture, said, "Yes, I've brought down a lion or two in my day."

"I like hunting," he said, then sipped his wine. "But I've never hunted anything so exotic. Just rabbits and deer."

"Then I must take you sometime."

"I'd like that." Perhaps it should've felt stranger that this man he'd only known for an hour was already planning to invite him hunting, but nothing felt more natural. It was as if they were old friends. "My father taught me to shoot when I was ten."

And his father had learned to shoot, as he would remind the family every Thanksgiving dinner, from his uncle Wayland's war buddy, Deforest Buck McCoy. Both men had fought for the Union, met during the war, and remained the best of friends, sharing a cabin together. _You were named after your great-uncle,_ said Ellsworth Smithers. _He is a true American patriot, won a Congressional Medal of Honor, even, and I have great hope that you'll live up to his name._ Wayland had objected to naming the boy after him instead of giving him a unique name, and so Ellsworth had struck a compromise: he'd name his son Waylon.

"Yes, I've hunted creatures of all kinds," said Mr. Burns, neglecting to mention that he left most of the actual hunting to men he'd hired. "But there is one great beast I have yet to slay – the fierce and mighty polar bear. I have yet to mount an expedition to the Arctic, but it is my intention to do so someday."

"Why haven't you?"

"I've simply gotten caught up in matters of commerce." This last word he meant both in the economic sense and the archaic sense of sexual intercourse, though he would adamantly deny the latter interpretation should Waylon raise the question. "Such an expedition will cost me dearly, so I must ensure my assets are in order."

"That's prudent." As he swallowed a few more bites of his duck, Waylon said, "You should meet my great-uncle Wayland. He's a Civil War veteran and was an avid hunter, and he's visiting us this week. Why don't you join us for dinner Saturday?"

"My dear boy, I'd love to, but this Saturday is my thirty-fifth birthday party. Why don't you two stop by? And bring Elzy, too, and your mother if she is so inclined."

"Thank you, I appreciate the invitation. May my brother come along, too?"

"But of course, provided they comport themselves appropriately. Many families attend my annual birthday celebrations. They rival the extravagance of the parties of Jay Gatsby."

"I look forward to it. But you'll have to tell me where you live."

"It's atop the hill on Mammon and Croesus. It's the largest home in all of Springfield. You cannot miss it." He wrote on a memo pad, then handed a sheet of paper to Waylon. "Should you need – or want – to contact me, this is where you can reach me." Waylon looked at the paper. It gave three telephone numbers: one for his office at the coal plant, one for his office at Springfield University, and one for his home. "I hope to hear from you soon."

He arrived back to his cavernous mansion after dropping Waylon off in front of his home and poured himself some brandy in a snifter, and he almost thought he saw Waylon's face in the reflections rippling off the surface. _Damn it..._ He missed the young man already. Waylon was so terribly earnest, wise beyond his years, yet still youthfully innocent, and he yearned to learn everything about him. _Damn it..._

He crawled into bed and dreamt futile dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

**Resonance**

 **Chapter Three**

1922 – Springfield, USA

Ten-year-old Waylon always enjoyed visiting his Aunt Constance at her cabin on the wooded base of Mount Springfield. She was a spinster, as was her dear friend Maybelle Jean Cahill who resided with her, but they were not bitter and unpleasant, dwelling miserably on how men had scorned them, as spinsters were rumored to be. Neither of them were. If anything, they were the gayest women they had ever known. They would dote on Waylon and his younger brother Clayton as if they were their own children, then talk late into the night with their parents, Elzy and Verna.

Waylon was not the rough-and-tumble sort like most boys his age seemed to be. Like his twelve-year-old brother Clayton was. Where Clayton would delight in wading through muddy creeks and catching salamanders, Waylon would prefer to stay inside and read a book or help his aunt bake cookies. He was a thoughtful child, not prone to get into rows, though he would not be easily intimidated when an older boy tried to rough him up.

Ellsworth Smithers walked inside after chopping wood in the back. "Waylon, why aren't you out playing with your brother?"

"He's catching salamanders."

"And? Why don't you go join him?"

"I don't like catching salamanders. I like reading."

"That's great, son, but a well-rounded young man must do more than read. He should venture outdoors, engage with the wilderness." He put his hand on Waylon's shoulder. "I have it. Today, you're going to learn to shoot." He got his Winchester, and Waylon wordlessly followed him outside. His father showed him how to steady the rifle, aim it, and fire it. He practiced shooting at a target his father had affixed to a tree and after awhile could almost hit the center. "Very good, Waylon! I daresay you'll become as skilled with a rifle as your great-uncle Wayland. I knew you had it in you," he said, patting his shoulder.

"Now may I go bake cookies with Aunt Constance?"

"You may."

He ran back inside, eagerly telling his aunt about his shooting and how well he had done as they mixed a batter for cookies and Waylon patted them into cookie shapes. As they were baking, a knock came at the door. Aunt Constance said to Waylon, "Now, stay away from that stove," and answered the door. "Uncle Wayland! Deforest! Come right in. Cookies will be ready soon," she said, ushering the old men inside.

"Thank you, Constance. And who's that I see in the kitchen?" Waylon turned his head. "Waylon! How have you been?"

Waylon ran up to them and said, "Today, I learned how to shoot a rifle!"

His eyes brightened. "You did?" Waylon nodded. "And I bet you hit the target every time."

"Well... not _every_ time. But close!"

"Atta boy!" He mussed Waylon's hair.

Clayton came inside, hands muddied. "I smell cookies. Are they ready yet?"

"Almost," said Aunt Constance.

Wayland said, "Say, Deforest and I are going deer hunting tomorrow morning. How would you and Clayton like to come along?"

"Boy, would I!" said Clayton.

"How about you, Waylon?"

"That'd be great!"

Deforest said, "You boys will have to be very quiet and patient and do exactly what we tell you. Think you boys can handle that?"

They nodded vigorously. They both loved their Uncle Deforest, as they called him. A surprisingly spritely and sturdy man for his 82 years, he had scraggly gray hair and a full, grizzled beard, standing at five foot nine to Wayland's five foot seven. Wayland, on the other hand, kept his face shaven with short, rough stubble speckled on his chin and neck, and he wore small, round spectacles. Both men were perpetually clad in jeans and plaid flannel, a rifle sure to be within arm's reach. They hunted off the land and shared a vegetable garden with Constance and Maybelle, and what they didn't eat, they sold to the townspeople to purchase tools and other goods. They were never inclined to city living like Wayland's brother Joshua Ellsworth Smithers, and they found the company of family and friends to be all the human contact they desired.

"We'll have to get up nice and early," said Deforest, "before daybreak. Think you boys can handle that?"

"Yes, sir!" said Waylon, simultaneous to his brother's enthusiastic, "Absolutely!"

* * *

September 15, 1928.

The Smithers family arrived at the gate of Burns Manor. "This is certainly an ostentatious affair for a birthday celebration," said Ellsworth as they left their Brewster Green Ford Model A to the care of a valet as they walked up the steps to the large doors into an expansive room adorned with massive chandeliers, antique furniture, masterpieces of art, and all the gaudy, gilded pleasures of decadent wealth.

"Whoa," said Clayton, his jaw slightly agape. The Smithers family was fairly well-to-do, but nothing like this, and they had worked their way up from fairly humble origins. Ellsworth had seen plenty of this luxury attending social functions with his more moneyed peers at Yale, but the rest of the family had never seen anything like it before.

"What _is_ the matter?" said a young man of twenty-five with ink-black hair neatly slicked back with a liberal helping of Brilliantine. "I would think you're some slack-jawed yokel, but Mr. Burns would never allow the likes of that to set foot on his estate."

Clayton brushed one of his short, dusty brown curls out of his eyes and said, "Well, if I'm a slack-jawed yokel, you're a son of a bitch."

Ellsworth's jaw dropped, and he prepared to smack his hand over his son's mouth but stopped when the young aristocrat chuckled and affably put his hand on Clayton's shoulder. "You have the cheeky tongue of an uppity prole."

Ellsworth clamored to say, "I certainly didn't raise him to speak like that, not to his social superiors, not to anyone!"

"What a shame," he said. "I like it." He smirked, delighted to see the looks of mortification, dismay, and confusion melting together on Ellsworth's face. "What is your name?" he said to Clayton.

"Clayton. Clayton Nash Smithers."

"Stanton. Sterling Hoyt Stanton." They shook hands. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Smithers."

"A pleasure to meet you, Sterling."

"Cheeky bastard. I daresay you ought to be whipped."

"Better a cheeky bastard than a governessy bitch."

"Clayton!" said Ellsworth, smacking his mouth with the back of his glove.

Sterling smiled. "Your father is right. You do need to learn a lesson. But he's not the one to teach it to you." He nodded his head in the direction of a nearby hall. "Come with me. To the conservatory."

Clayton merely nodded and followed him, and as he left, Montgomery Burns drifted from the ballroom into the grand foyer, his posture relaxed as he basked in the gaiety of the occasion. The martini in his hand tilted and almost sloshed out of the glass as he extended his other hand for Waylon's. "Waylon, my dear boy, so glad to see you! And this must be your family," he said, gesturing to his parents and to Wayland and Deforest.

"Yes, sir," said Waylon. "Mr. Burns, these are my parents, Ellsworth and Verna, and this is my great-uncle Wayland and his war buddy Deforest. They're Civil War veterans."

"Oh?" said Burns. "Which side?"

"Union, of course!" said Wayland.

Deforest fixed a suspicious eye on Burns. "Any of your family fight in it?"

"My family? Well..." He thought back to his grandfather, Colonel Wainwright Montgomery Burns, telling him about the time he had been conscripted to fight in the War of Northern Aggression and sent a group of slaves to fight in his stead for the Confederacy, promising to grant them freedom in exchange for their service. It was a history he knew better than to divulge, given Springfield was located in a northern state. "...not as such." Eager to divert attention from himself and the war, he said, "So, Elzy, how has life been since those shortest, gladdest days at Yale?"

"With pleasure rife," he said, running his hand up and down the side of his wife's shoulder and arm. "My coffers may not compare to yours, but my investments have left me a much wealthier man than when I began. Wealth earned is a surer sign of success than that which was fed to you via a silver spoon."

"As much as it may shock you, I'm pleased to hear it. Waylon is a man of enormous potential and promise, and he deserves to have every advantage." He smiled at Waylon and rested his hand on his shoulder. "And I intend to give him whatever advantages you are unable to."

"Mr. Burns, my son doesn't need to rely on your charity. He has a quick wit and a personable comportment, which already puts him at an advantage compared to you."

"True, he doesn't need my help to succeed. But it won't hurt him." He winked none too subtly.

"Where should we put our gift to you, sir?" asked Waylon.

"Oh, just throw it on the pile with the others," he said, gesturing to a line where a series of blue-collar workers trudged in and listlessly set down package after package. As Waylon's parents brought their gift to the pile, Burns pressed his fingertips slightly into his skin, delicately, almost imperceptibly, massaging his shoulder. Waylon smiled yet fixed his eyes warily on Burns' hand. "You looked tense," said Burns in an explanation so quiet as to render the defensive fear in his voice inaudible to the casual listener. Waylon widened his smile, anxieties assuaged, as Burns more overtly began massaging his shoulder. Burns' breath hitched in a muted gasp, and he released his hand. "You had better join your parents, now. Meet in the dining hall in twenty minutes. I have places at the table reserved for you and your kin." Waylon stood there looking at him for a moment, as though his words had just broken a trance. "Well, run along, now, and mingle! You don't get many opportunities to rub elbows with a crowd of this caliber."

The message seemed to register with Waylon, and he said, "Yes, sir," before leaving to mix with the crowd.

Deforest turned a critical eye to Mr. Burns and said quietly, "What exactly is the nature of your interest in young Waylon?"

"As I said, I intend to help make him a great man in his own right."

"And your intentions regarding him are virtuous?"

"My intentions? You speak as if I were courting him."

"Are you?"

"Don't be absurd!"

Wayland shot Deforest a stern look. "Why should we doubt him when he says it's innocent?"

"I've seen that look he gave him in the eyes of men before," said Deforest.

Mr. Burns said, "I've looked at him as any man might look at another. Unless we're going to pathologize the sense of sight..."

"Nobody needs to stare at a man that long to know his mood and features."

"There is nothing impure about our relationship."

"Make certain it stays that way."

"It will require no effort on my part. Now, this discussion has ended. Good day to you." He curtly turned around and walked away, telling a servant to bring him some punch sans alcohol as he took his seat at the end of the great dining hall table.

About an hour later, after dinner had ended and Burns had begun opening presents, Clayton stole into his place at the table, panting with a tremor of terror and elation. "What took you so long?" said Waylon in a whisper.

Clayton bit his lip, then said as discreetly as possible, "I was using the facilities."

Waylon nodded, then turned his attention back to Mr. Burns, who was about to open his gift. The first item in the box was a poster rolled up. Burns unfolded it, revealing a periodic table. "It's updated, with all 91 elements on it," said Waylon. Burns smiled and reached into the box, pulling out a pair of rabbit fur gloves. "Uncle Deforest made them for me, but I've outgrown them. I think they'll be perfect for your hands, though."

Mr. Burns tried on the gloves. Indeed, they fit... like a glove. Or rather, like two gloves. "Yes, a fine present." With that, he resumed opening the other gifts.

The festivities came to a close, and the Smithers family, one of the last groups to leave, stood outside the entrance as the valet brought their car up. Once they were inside, they spoke excitedly about what they had seen, but also – more importantly – _who_ they had seen. Clayton was the exception, uncharacteristically silent and withdrawn. Ellsworth looked back briefly to check Clayton's expression and said, "Normally, you won't stop talking. Don't you have anything to say about your ill-mannered behavior tonight?"

"Sterling thought I was charming."

"Where did you two get off to, anyway? You embarrassed us with your tardiness."

"I'm sorry, Dad, I just got carried away. I mean –"

"He was sick in the lavatory," said Waylon.

"Who is this Mr. Stanton? And why do you think you can get away with addressing him by his given name?"

"He asked me to call him Sterling." His father made a grunt of disbelief. "He invited me to play polo with him at the country club next Saturday."

"I never pegged you as a social climber," said Wayland. "I thought you were more like me – a woodsman in the making."

"That's what I always thought, too. But then, there's a lot I've reconsidered lately."

He and Waylon, 18 and 16, respectively, were of the age when their great-uncle Wayland had fought for the preservation of the Union, and their father never let them forget it. Rather, he never let Clayton forget it. Waylon, always the golden boy, had gone the academic route, making a name for himself in an honorable pursuit. Clayton, on the other hand, would putter in his aunt's garden and go on hunting trips with Wayland and Deforest, sketching wildlife in his spare time. Ellsworth had often pushed him to get a steady job with an income, but Clayton knew exactly how to shut down such suggestions. Each time the subject came up, he volunteered to become a coal miner or garbage collector, and the way the hairs in his father's mustache would bristle told him exactly what he wanted to hear.

When they got home, they went to their respective rooms. After changing into his pajamas, Waylon decided to call Mr. Burns. He held the receiver to his ear and prepared to dial Burns' home number when he heard Clayton's voice.

"I can't wait to see you again," said Clayton.

"Come after we play the sixth chukker – my room is the place you will pucker your lips both for me, and no one will see the look in your eyes while we –"

Waylon slammed the receiver down. No, it probably wasn't as it sounded. Sterling must have been cracking a joke of some sort. He seemed the type to be into bawdy humor. After all, his brother was tough and manly as they come. Surely he had misconstrued the talk. They would never be so indiscreet if there were anything more to it than innocent banter.

He shut the light out and curled into bed, and soon the unsettling phone exchange receded into the back of his unconscious with fragments of half-remembered dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

**Resonance**

 **Chapter Four**

 _A froward man soweth strife: and a whisperer separateth chief friends._

 _A violent man enticeth his neighbour, and leadeth him into the way that is not good._

 _He shutteth his eyes to devise froward things: moving his lips he bringeth evil to pass._

– _Proverbs 16:28-30 (King James Version)_

* * *

"Some say idle hands are the devil's workshop," said Colonel Wainwright Montgomery Burns to his adopted grandson and heir. "Flim-flam! Idle hands are the _poor man's_ workshop. Idle lips keep you from incriminating yourself before a court of law. Pitting your underlings against each other spares you their ire. A duly-considered rumor can eviscerate your competitors before they eviscerate you. Wickedness is a solitary yet profitable business, and it behooves you not to lead others into sin – best to keep them good, meek little sheep who won't revolt or stab you in the back."

* * *

 **1902 – Springfield Cemetery**

Monty Burns, a child of eight years, stood in the cemetery with only three other mourners – a man in his early forties, his wife, and their ten-year-old son, a boy with chestnut hair and a pince-nez upon the bridge of his nose. Reverend Elijah Lovejoy presided and, seeing no one else was coming, commenced the ceremony. As he began the eulogy, Monty wondered with a hint of sadness why so few people had bothered to show up.

"And so we are gathered here to pay our final respects to Winfield Marshall Smithers, a man who devoted his life to the service of his friend and employer, Colonel Wainwright Montgomery Burns – wait, that can't be right..." He shuffled through the papers. "Dear God, it is!" He saw the irritated faces of the four mourners, then quickly tried to recover his composure and resume reading the prepared eulogy, which he apparently had not bothered to read ahead of time. "A loving father and pillar of the community – I am sorry, I cannot read this prevaricating piffle." He threw the papers to the ground and handed some money to the man. "Take your fee back; my soul is worth more to me."

The priest's dismissal of his family's most loyal servant distressed young Monty. Dear Smithers had always been such a delight, regaling them with stories of bygone days in his lovely Southern accent. Then again, not even the Colonel himself had deigned to show up for the service. The man took the papers from the ground and continued reading, as naturally and unperturbed as though the priest had not fled in disgust at the deceased's association with Wainwright Montgomery Burns. After he had finished, they laid flowers at the grave and bowed their heads in silent prayer. Once they had lifted their heads again, Monty approached the young boy. "Did you know Smithers well?"

"No. He was my grandfather, though." It occurred to Monty then that his Smithers had spent so much time at the Burns estate, he'd spent more time with the Burns family than with his own. "I'm Ellsworth, but friends call me Elzy."

"I'm Montgomery, but friends call me Monty." They shook hands. "I'll miss him. He was a dear friend of our family."

"Why didn't your father come, then?"

"He makes a point not to be seen caring for commoners such as yourselves." Seeing disdain flash in Elzy's eyes, he said, "But my father and I don't always see eye to eye. Actually, he's my grandfather." They both looked to the grave and stood in silence for a minute, when Monty turned to Elzy and said, "He was always kind to me." He looked to his shoes. "He was the only one who truly cared." Even his loving, natural parents hadn't loved him enough to give half a damn that he'd chosen to leave them to live with Wainwright. But Winfield – he had acted as the archetypal kindly grandfather whereas the Colonel had acted as the archetypal evil old man. Where the Colonel would tell him to walk off a broken leg rather than pay a medical fee to have it properly set, Winfield Smithers would discreetly take him to a clinic and have him treated at his own expense from his meager salary. "He always cared."

* * *

 **1922 – Berlin, Germany**

Young men drifting through the darkened streets in solitude had many options to alleviate the ache of a heart wounded by woman's spurning. Monty Burns, a young man nearing thirty, stalked the streets among them, seeking not a good time so much as a time less loathsome. He approached one of the many ladies of the evening about on the street corners that night. "Psst. Are you one of the _belles-de-nuit_?"

"I have what you're looking for, if you have what I'm looking for." Somehow, he sincerely doubted she had what he was looking for.

"Very well. Come with me," he said, motioning to his car. "I have a room at the hotel."

He guided her into his room, and she sat on the bed and took off her shoes, then lifted the hem of her skirt. He drew in a deep breath and sighed. His grandfather had managed a brothel and many times derided him for his shy attitude around girls. Upon confessing his devastation at Lyla's rejection, his grandfather had advised him that if she wouldn't let him take her, he had to go out and find a girl he could take. That would set things right.

"So... I suppose we should get started. I'll begin by undoing the buckle to my shoe."

"Take as long as you need. You're paying by the hour."

Burns shivered. This was the one kind of transaction that made him feel lower, not higher. She truly didn't care for him; he was merely another customer to her. "What's your name?"

"You can call me Elise."

He tugged at one of her stockings from the knee, sliding it down to the ankle. The whole enterprise felt mechanical. He reached his hand up her thigh, then winced and withdrew. "No, I can't do it! What is the fun if I'm not even desirable enough to find a woman who really cares for me?" He turned away from her and threw her stocking back at her. "Leave!"

"Fine. But you took up my time, and you owe me for it."

"Very well, take it! Just get out of my sight," he said, shoving a fistful of Marks at her. Once she'd shut the door behind her, he opened his wallet and stared into Lyla's eyes. Would it have been such a tall order? Could he have done the unthinkable and thought selflessly of others each day? He shook his head. "I've been adrift much too long if I'm entertaining such fanciful notions."

* * *

 **1930 – Springfield Cemetery**

"We are gathered here today to remember the life of Wayland Gardner Smithers, a celebrated Civil War veteran and a pillar of the community, who at the age of eighty-six died peacefully in his home in the woods where he had lived alone since his companion Deforest Buck McCoy passed away two years ago, also at the age of eighty-six. He was by all accounts a good man, a kind man..."

Monty Burns approached the Smithers family gathered around the grave and stood behind them until the eulogy had concluded. The Reverend led them in a prayer, and Burns, although not the praying type, joined in. "Amen," they said, ending the prayer. As the Reverend gave condolences to the individual mourners, Burns turned to Waylon and his father and said, "He seemed like a good man." Waylon and Elzy nodded, eyes facing the ground. "He reminded me of his uncle Winfield." That was enough to get the Smithers' eyes off their feet. Wayland's father and his uncle had parted ways a while before the Civil War had begun, and once the war had started, they had declared each other enemies and never spoke or met again. It had been a major point of contention between Ellsworth and his father, who insisted the man's service to the Colonel didn't reflect his true opinions. He was first and foremost a loyal man, and loyalty was the highest virtue.

"We don't speak of that man," said Elzy.

"But why?"

"He was an evil man whose existence besmirched the good name of the Smithers family."

 _But he sang to me..._ he thought, but he could not express it, simply averted his eyes and nodded slightly. How could Winfield Smithers have been evil? He had not known evil to be kind, and yet, there was no prescript against it, so he couldn't rule out the possibility. He surveyed the crowd. Almost everyone there was a Smithers, as Wayland had lived a relatively solitary life, with one notable exception. "Stanton," he said, approaching the young lad of twenty-seven years. "What brings you here?" He shook his hand.

"I'm here as Clayton's guest."

"And how is Lloyd? Humors in proper balance, I trust?"

"I suppose you could say that."

"Last I heard, he was working on mounting an expedition with Cliff."

"He reneged on that. He said he didn't trust your brother."

"A smart man, your father. A smart man, indeed." He returned to Waylon, who had just finished talking to the priest, and put a hand on his shoulder. "Should you ever need something... or someone... you can come to me anytime." And with that, he walked away.

At Springfield University that week, they spoke of Farnsworth's work in cathode ray tubes and Fleming's isolation of penicillin, of the dire state of the stock market and the prospects for the future of the coal market, the way they always had discussed current events.

Saturday was different.

Waylon ran up to the gate of Burns Manor, a heavy, weighted down rucksack jostling around his back as the sun hung low in the sky behind him. He ran as a way to quell his anger as opposed to the goal being to quicken his pace. When he reached the gate guard, he said in weary, panting breaths, "I'd like to see... Mr. Burns... please. I'm –"

The guard opened the gate. "Mr. Burns has granted you access to his estate whenever you find yourself here, Waylon."

"Thank you," he said, running up the hill. Once he reached the top, he rang the doorbell and waited for a few minutes until Mr. Burns peered through a window, then swung the doors open.

"Waylon, my boy, so good to see you! How has your day been so far?"

"Um... I have something to discuss with you."

"But of course. Would you care for some tea?"

"Uh – yes, sir, I'd like that, actually."

"Come with me," he said, leading him down a hall into a kitchen, where he filled a whistling kettle with water. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing to a small, round, wooden table with a white lace cloth stretched elegantly over the top. Waylon sat. "So, what is it you came to talk to me about?"

"I'd rather wait until you're done there and our tea is in the pot."

"Oh. Very well, then." He stood impatiently by the stove, then looked again at Waylon, whose eyebrows arched in distress, then back to the kettle. Once the kettle finally whistled, he turned off the stove and poured the water into a teapot on the table, then sat, elbows on tabletop, and said, "The tea is steeping, now tell me what has you on tenterhooks."

"Sir, I – what would you say if someone you knew – if a man you knew – if he had been found..." He glanced anxiously at the teapot, its contents still mostly plain water and still much too hot to drink. "If it turned out he..."

"Out with it, man! If he _what_?"

"If he were in love with another man." He reached his hand for the teapot handle, then brought it back, reminding himself it wasn't yet ready.

"Why, Waylon, what I would tell him," he said, interlocking his fingers and resting his chin on them as he stared intensely into Waylon's eyes, "is that he should pursue what his heart desires."

Waylon's eyes opened wide in shock, and then his lips stretched into an open-mouthed smile. "You really think so, sir?"

"I wouldn't think anything else."

"I'm glad you think that. My father, on the other hand," he said as his brows creased in a disdainful scowl, "is not so enlightened."

"He doesn't approve of adhesive love?"

"Approve? He can't abide it. Not even in his own uncle Wayland!"

"Wayland?"

"He said he was ashamed to have named me for him."

"He had relations with..."

"Deforest was his lover, yes. Since the war." Burns poured him some tea. "He had letters. Love letters they'd written each other. My father burned them all. Or so he thought. I found one wedged between the pages of a book of poems. Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_. I went looking for his diary to find out more, and I asked where it was and – he burned it, my father actually burned it. And all the tintypes with Deforest in it. I started screaming at him, for desecrating history like that, and he said Wayland was the one who desecrated our good name. A man he spent his whole life worshipping, practically! And now his name is mud." He sipped from his tea that was really too hot to be sipped.

"Elzy always did strike me as a hard man. And you know I'm not a soft-hearted fellow."

"I thought I'd at least have Clayton on my side, but I guess if he wants to be an ignorant hick, then that's what he'll be."

"He despises him, too?"

"I don't think so. Not really. But he just blindly agrees with whatever father says. When I asked him whether he thought he should've burned the letters and the photographs, he just nodded and echoed father's words: 'No degenerate belongs in the Smithers household.' It's like he doesn't have an original thought in his head if it isn't Ellsworth Smithers-approved. He's a far cry from the Clayton I grew up with and admired, that's certain." He took a sip of the tea that was still too hot, yet he took the burning hot water into his mouth anyway. "So now, he thinks I am, too, and he sent me away."

"Are you?"

"No, sir, absolutely not."

"I haven't seen you with a girlfriend in the last two years I've known you."

"I've just been busy with my studies. You know how much I strive for excellence."

"I see." He timidly sipped his own tea. "You could stay here, if you like."

"Oh, thank you, sir, but I've already arranged to stay with my aunt."

"And what is her take on this?"

"I'm convinced she is the same way as he was. She and Maybelle. They've said as much before. Said they have no desire for marriage when they have each other, that sort of thing." The corner of his mouth twisted in a wry smile. "For a family so full of 'degenerates,' I wonder if it isn't people like my father and I who are besmirching the Smithers family name."

"You besmirch nothing." He looked away. "You're much too strong a thinker and a spirit to besmirch any name. No, it's others' names who besmirch you." He looked back up at Waylon. "Now, let me show you to the guest room."

"Sir, I already said I'm staying with my aunts."

"Very well. Let me call a chauffeur. You're ill-suited for manual labor, lifting such an onerous load as this," he said, prying a shoulder strap from his back. "What are you carrying in this, bricks?" he said as he struggled with the bag.

Waylon lifted it easily. "No, sir, just a few of my personal affects. Mostly books. Though you could use them as bricks if you really needed to, I suppose," he said with that slight chuckle that indicated he had hoped to make a joke but was fully aware he had failed in this enterprise.

He was so studious and responsible, on the verge of boringly so, yet he managed to maintain an enlivened spirit that sustained a joie de vivre even through difficult circumstances. "Yes. Remember this, Waylon: if you ever get into trouble, I'll see to it that you are safe from harm."

"Thank you, Mr. Burns. I'll remember that."


	5. Chapter 5

**Resonance**

 **Chapter Five**

Waylon received his diploma with a hearty handshake then joined the ranks of the fellow students of his graduating class standing before the curtain of the Springfield University Auditorium. When the time came for him to deliver the valedictory speech, he stepped forth to the podium. The audience attended to him, and he spoke in a measured voice, his eyes directed to the crowd as a whole. As he went on hailing the virtues of Springfield University and painting a rosy picture of the prospects of the graduating class, though, his eyes kept shifting back to focus on his father. This was the first time they'd looked one another eye to eye since he had been expelled from the household.

Waylon tossed the index cards referencing his prepared remarks to the side and said, "But above all, it behooves us to remember that what ultimately lifts us up is not our success in the eyes of society, but our allegiance to family. The man who abandons his love for his family for the sake of his reputation is a scoundrel of the highest order, particularly when he maintains the facade of a loving father. My advice to us all: work hard, live true, and die free. Salutations." He walked off the stage, then left the auditorium altogether.

He walked briskly across the quad, hands in pocket, his posture stiff and slightly slanted. Once he'd made it halfway across, Clayton ran to catch him. "Waylon!" he shouted, and his brother turned his head. "Waylon, wait!" Waylon turned his head forward and walked more briskly away. "I wanted to thank you."

"For what? For getting father off your back by becoming the family's new black sheep?"

"No, no! Well, yes, actually."

"Why are you even talking to me? You made it clear you agreed with father that degenerates have no place in the Smithers family."

"But I know you're not degenerate."

"If I told you I were, though, you'd hate me as much as father does."

"I wouldn't!"

"Oh, really? Why should I believe that?"

"Because I'm the one who's degenerate!" He clasped his trembling hands over his mouth. "I mean..."

"Clayton? You?"

He brought his chin to his chest and failed to hold back the tears that streamed down his cheeks, his head bobbing slightly, his knees wobbling as if about to give way. "I tried, Waylon, honest to God, I tried! You don't know how hard I tried not to be this way, but I don't know how to change. I've tried so many times to end it, but I keep going back to him..."

"You found someone?" Clayton nodded. "It's Sterling, isn't it?" His lips strained, he nodded, this time with a deep sadness. "He's why you decided to stay in the city and take up that accounting course, isn't he?" With half a snort of amusement, he smiled and nodded.

"I hope you really meant what you said about allegiance to family."

"Of course I meant it." He hugged Clayton, patting his back over the shoulder blades. "You'll always be brother to me," he said, releasing him from the hug.

"I want to live true, I really do. It kills me that I can't."

"You should come with me to see Aunt Constance and Maybelle."

"I can't move out. If I got kicked out, I'd have no social standing, and people would look askance at Sterling and me spending time together. That's why I decided to go into accounting. I could get a respectable job, move out, and have a little privacy. If I were just some country bumpkin, what would Sterling ever want with me?"

"If he's smart, he'd want you regardless."

"But he couldn't take me to parties, introduce me to his friends, and such."

"You don't need to move out. Just visit with us. I have to go over there to pick up some of my things I left there, anyway."

"I'd like that. I'm meeting Sterling later, so I can't come tonight. How about I meet you at the park gate tomorrow at noon?"

"Great. I'll see you then."

"I really should get back to father now. I told him I left to use the john." He looked Waylon in the eye and said, "Gee, I – I can't tell you how much this means to me. You understanding my... situation."

"I love you, Clayton." He hugged him again. "It's good to see you."

The next day, noon came and passed as Waylon waited by the gate to Springfield Park, a newspaper held low and loose between his hands to appear more casual and less conspicuous. An hour passed, then another. _It's probably nothing,_ he thought. _Maybe he's just having fun with Sterling and forgot about our meeting._ His rational self-reassurances notwithstanding, his stomach twisted itself in tempestuous knots. _Something must be terribly wrong._

He went to the nearby police station to use their payphone and rang his father's number. After a few rings, his father answered. "Hello?"

"Dad."

Waylon could hear his father's frown as he said, "Oh. It's you."

"Is Clayton there?"

"No. He hasn't been home since last night."

"Has he said where he's been?"

"He said he was visiting at the Stanton estate."

"I thought so. Thank you." He hung up the phone, then picked it up again and dialed for the Stanton estate. It rang interminably, and he resignedly set the receiver down. "I guess something came up." As he trudged out of the station, he saw Clayton.

But his eyes didn't brighten.

He blinked to be sure his eyes weren't deceiving him. But no – there was Clayton, dragged up the stairs in handcuffs by two policemen, his face drained of its color. "Clayton! What the hell is going on?"

"Th-they caught me..."

"Doing what?"

He sniffled and said in a strained voice, "Sterling..."

"What are you doing stealing things like a common crook?"

"Not stealing! _Sterling!_ "

Waylon's face froze as the horror of his brother being unjustly imprisoned overshadowed his relief that his brother's integrity was intact. "Good God! I swear I'll do everything in my power to get you out of this. Promise me you won't give up hope!"

Clayton's lips quavered as he said shakily, "I promise," and the officers led him away.

Once he had been processed and permitted visitors, Waylon approached the holding cell where his brother stood, fingers wrapped around iron bars just feet away from the town drunk who lay collapsed on his cot. "Don't fret too much. I'm sure it's only a fine."

He stared past Waylon and the walls, shaking his head slightly and slowly and saying in the same way, "It won't be just a fine."

"I know it looks grim, but we have to have hope –"

"Sterling told them I forced myself on him!"

Waylon gasped. "How could he...?"

"I really thought he loved me..." He lowered his head until his forehead hit the bars. "What a damn fool I was!"

Waylon reached through the bars, pried his fingers from the metal, and met his palm with his own. "It'll be okay."

"How? How is it ever going to be okay? My life is ruined!"

"I don't know how, but I know it."

"Really convincing coming from my brother, the atheist."

"Well, I wouldn't say that. I may not believe in any religion, but I haven't ruled out the possibility of some kind of higher presence. But anyway, the point is, I know you. I know you'll get through this." He tightened his grip of his brother's hand. "I'll see if Mr. Burns has any dirt on Sterling. If we unearth evidence that he's sought intercourse with other men before, it'll demolish his testimony against you."

"Even if you prove he wanted it, consensual sodomy is punishable by up to ten years. Ten years in prison! My God! I'm sunk."

"I won't let it happen. I refuse to believe the people of Springfield are so cruel and myopic as to let you languish in prison."

"Even if I'm acquitted, everyone knows about me now. I'll be a laughingstock for the rest of my life!"

He broke down crying, and Waylon hugged him through the bars. "It'll be all right, Clayton. You're my brother, and I'll be there for you, no matter what. I'll do whatever I can to save you."


	6. Chapter 6

**Resonance**

 **Chapter Six**

"Rest assured, Mr. Smithers, I'm sure to get your brother acquitted. I'm the best public defender in Springfield." Ezekiel Hutz boastfully adjusted his tie.

"You're the _only_ public defender in Springfield," said Waylon.

"Which means there's nobody better!"

He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "It also means there's nobody worse."

"Well, unless you can afford to hire someone better, I'll be defending your brother."

"Afford. I can't, but I know someone who can." He reached over and grabbed the phone on Hutz's desk and began to dial. Once he'd finished dialing, he looked up and gestured as if to ask permission to use the phone. Before Hutz could respond, however, Mr. Burns picked up the phone.

"Ahoy-hoy?"

"Mr. Burns, I need you to come to the police station as soon as possible."

"Waylon? What the devil is going on? It's unlike you to have skirmishes with the law."

"Please, I implore you, sir, just get there and let me explain in person."

"No. If you wish for me to bail you out, you'll tell me what you've done this instant. I can't have my reputation soiled by association with any unsavory exploits."

"It's nothing I did. I'm not the one incarcerated."

"Then I have no interest in providing any assistance."

"Please, sir! It's my brother! He's in dire need, and father has disowned him."

"The petty drama of the Smithers family is hardly my concern."

"We can't afford a lawyer, and he desperately needs one."

"I said, 'not interested.'"

"I'm begging, hands-and-knees _begging_ you, sir. He was caught with his lover, another man, who betrayed him. Sterling lied and said Clayton forced him."

"He... betrayed him."

"Yes. My brother is in the jail holding cell right now, and father won't pay for a lawyer, so –"

"So you thought you'd tip your begging cap to Monty Burns."

"Will you help us, sir?"

"Yes. Indeed, I will."

"Great, so the sooner you can get here, the –"

"No. You will meet me here in one hour."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I'll see you then, sir."

An hour later, Waylon arrived at the gate to Burns Manor, then swiftly made his way up the hill. Before he could knock at the door, Burns swung it open, shook his hand, and said, "Come this way." He led Waylon down corridors his shadow had never darkened until finally they stopped at an unremarkable door, and Burns retrieved a key from his robe and used it to twist the knob.

The room was pitch black, and so Burns seized a nearby torch and lit it with a match, then led them inside, tilting his torch to the wicks of candles in gilded holders mounted on the walls as they entered. As he spread the flame, illuminating the room candle by candle, the light unveiled a lavish and opulent master bedroom adorned with elegant fixtures of gold, silver, and platinum, a fireplace, a bed with the silkiest of sheets, paintings of his grandfather Wainwright and his father, an antique desk, quill pen perched above inkwell as though they had been been used just a day ago, photographs framed and mounted on the wall. Waylon shut the door behind them. "Mr. Burns, what is this place? And why did you take me here?"

"You're the only one besides myself to have laid eyes on this room in twenty years." He set the torch on a holder, then made his way to the bed and sat down. Waylon followed suit and sat beside him. "It was my bedroom. I was sixteen, and I had invited a school chum over. We were quite close and would wrestle with each other as boys will. One day, when he had me in a hold, I realized I didn't want to get out of it." He sighed and opened the drawer to the nightstand and took into his hand a faded color photograph of a boy with curly chestnut hair. "We never did anything more than lie together, but that was enough to enrage my father when he walked into my room and found me huddled up against him."

"Oh, no..."

"My father beat me with a switch, forbade me to enter this room again, and sealed the door, my possessions locked inside, and I never set foot here again, until he met with an 'unfortunate accident.'" He looked at the pillow and felt the sheets in his fingers, smiling at the memories it evoked. How happy he had felt in that young man's arms! He set the photograph on top of the nightstand and looked Waylon straight in the eyes. "You are the only person I've told this."

"I didn't realize you were a confirmed bachelor."

"Oh, no, I fancy women. But I never let that stop me from taking advantage of an opportunity to be with a beautiful young man." His eyelids lowered as he delighted in Waylon's face and physique.

Waylon smiled a bit, nervously. "So, about my brother..."

"Oh, yes, of course."

"Do you know something about the Stanton family we might be able to use against them? If one of his family has some deep secret of his own, we could persuade him to testify against Sterling in exchange for our silence."

Burns grinned. "I like the way you think." He stood and clasped his hands behind his back as he approached the fireplace. "Unfortunately, his family has a reputation for being squeaky-clean. However, I shall hire some private investigators to unearth any sordid business they might be hiding. In the meantime," he said, turning back to him, "I shall furnish a lawyer of the highest caliber."

"Oh, thank you, sir, thank you! I am in your debt."

"You don't know what a dangerous phrase that is, Waylon. I always collect on my debts, and I always demand interest."

* * *

"What do you mean, 'won't take the case?'" Burns slammed his fist on his desktop. "If I say you'll take the case, you take the case!"

"I'm sorry, but I can't defend your friend, Mr. Burns," said the Black-Haired Lawyer. "I've already been hired as the prosecuting attorney for this case."

"Damn your oily hide to hell!" He hung up abruptly. "We'll have to look outside of Springfield to find a lawyer good enough for this case. Waylon, what's the name of that fellow who stood up for Darwin and defended those charming young men in Chicago? You know, the ones who fancied themselves supermen and did away with that boy."

"You mean, Leopold and Loeb?"

"Yes, those two!"

"I believe that was Darence Clarrow, sir."

"Excellent. I'll have him on the first train to Springfield."

* * *

"Gentlemen," said the Black-Haired-Lawyer, "this is a story of the betrayal of a young man's trust in his friend. The defendant has been charged with aggravated sodomy because on Saturday, May 28, 1932, Mr. Stanton's mother saw the defendant sodomizing her son with her own eyes through a gap between his bedroom window curtains. We will hear testimony from her, as well as from others who can attest to the defendant's deviant inclinations. They had been good friends for several years up until this point. We will paint a portrait of a disturbed young man who inflicted his ungodly impulses on a man he'd called 'friend' and on our community. In the course of this trial, I will demonstrate that Clayton Smithers, motivated by base desires and moral turpitude, sodomized his friend, Sterling Stanton, against his will."

Clarrow took the stand for his own statements. "The prosecutor is right about one thing – this trial is about the betrayal of a young man's trust in his friend. It is about a man who thought he'd found love only to discover he had found the opposite. This trial is about sin. Not a sin of sexual desire, but a sin of selfishness and vile contempt for human dignity. This sin, as I will show, is not the sin of one man accusing the defendant, but the sin of all onlookers who would cheer for one man to hang so another man can retain his elite status. I will show you that the defendant is not the violent man he's been made out to be. He was in a romantic relationship with Mr. Stanton and engaged him consensually, and when caught, out of a desire to conceal his homosexual inclinations, he claimed Mr. Smithers was coercing him."

The prosecutor interviewed the witnesses one by one. First, Sterling's mother told of the trauma of seeing her son in the middle of the act. Then Sterling himself was called to the stand. "Now," said the Black-Haired-Lawyer, "you aren't a homosexual, are you?"

"No, sir. I'm a proper, God-fearing man."

"So you and Clayton weren't lovers, as he claims."

"God no! We're just friends... or, rather, we _were_ friends..." His shoulders shuddered as he sniffled. "And then he started touching me, and I kept telling him, no, I'm a good Christian, I want no part of this, but he kept going..."

"I think we've heard enough."

Clarrow began cross-examining witnesses, ending with Sterling. "You said Mr. Smithers was your friend. How did you meet?"

"We were both attending Mr. Burns' birthday party a couple of years ago, and he called me a son of a bitch." People of the court laughed a bit.

"Do your friends normally curse you?"

"Well, no."

"Why don't they?"

"It's rude. Unbecoming of a gentleman."

"Yet you tolerated it from Mr. Smithers."

"Clayton is no gentleman," he said, his mouth twisting slightly upward into a grin.

"And what did you do that night?"

"Do? We talked. We just talked."

"What did you talk about?"

"You know, the usual. Who remembers what they said at a party four years ago?"

"Do you recall telling him he had beautiful eyes?"

"No. I recall no such thing."

"Clayton was late to join the others at the table while Mr. Burns opened his presents. Do you care to divulge the reason why?"

"How should I know? He told me he needed to use the lavatory."

"You were also late and arrived at the table at the same time as he did. Were you both in the lavatory?"

"No, we were in the guest room."

"And what were you doing in the guest room?"

"Talking. Just... talking."

"You became friends quickly. How often did you see him?"

"Every so often. We'd play polo sometimes."

"Your friends attest that you two were practically inseparable."

"I liked his company."

"Did he ever show a sign of wanting a more physical relationship?"

"No."

"No? You mean in five years of close friendship, you never saw a sign that he was attracted to you?"

"No, I didn't."

"You are alone among your friends, then. Merritt, Samuel, Sullivan, and Cyril all assert in an affidavit that they saw clear signs that Clayton desired you."

"I don't know what they saw, then."

"He never made an advance on you, then?"

"No, never."

"Your friend Cyril wrote that he saw Clayton kiss your cheek."

"I didn't think anything of it. I've spent so much time in Europe, where a man kissing another's cheek isn't taken as a sign of anything sinister."

"You say you wanted no part of Clayton's sexual overtures."

"Yes. That is true."

"You said that as a good Christian, you would want nothing to do with it."

"Yes. That's exactly what I said."

"It strikes me as odd. If a man attempted to solicit sex from me, I would not say, 'no, sir, I'm a good Christian.' I would say, 'no, sir, I do not want that.'"

"That's what I said. It means the same thing."

"Does it? If you weren't a Christian, would you want him?"

"Don't be absurd! Even if I were so inclined, why would I risk my reputation to be with a commoner?"

"Not only a commoner, but a man seven years your junior."

"He was eighteen when we met, yes."

"A novice to the affairs of men compared to your more worldly twenty-five years. And at five foot eight, he is not a particularly tall or intimidating man, wouldn't you say?"

"His physique is well-developed, I assure you."

"Enough to overpower you?"

"Evidently so."

"How tall are you, Mr. Stanton?"

"Six feet, sir."

"Six feet. And what is your weight?"

"Two hundred pounds."

"Now, let me look this up," he said, flipping through some papers. "According to the police report, Clayton Smithers is five foot eight and a hundred-fifty pounds. You are telling us that this younger boy fifty pounds lighter than you overpowered you."

"Y-yes, sir, that's true."

"How do you propose he did that?"

"He – he drugged me."

"There is no mention of that in the initial report. Police noted you were alert and oriented when giving your statement."

"It wore off quickly."

"What did he drug you with?"

"I don't know. He didn't exactly hand me a pamphlet." Those attending the proceedings laughed.

"How do you know he drugged you?"

"I was dazed and suggestible, so I just went along with what he was doing."

"So you weren't completely incapacitated?"

"I guess I wasn't."

"So he didn't hold you down and forcibly penetrate you."

"No, I guess not."

"How did he proceed, then?"

"He waited until I was subdued, then he began to stroke my leg, and... he started out by teasing me, and..."

"Did he make you feel good?"

"He made me feel disgusted!"

"Yes, but did he make you feel good?"

"No! No, he made me feel sick to my stomach!"

"Then why does your initial statement to the police consist solely of the claim that he held you down and forced himself on you, with no mention of any drug or alteration of your state of consciousness?"

"I don't know! All I know is I didn't want it, and he did it anyway! Each time I close my eyes at night, I relive it and feel dirty as a Frenchman." He began to bawl, lowering his head to the podium. "I just want to feel normal again..."

The Black-Haired Lawyer gave the closing remarks for the prosecution: "Clearly this whole affair has been traumatizing for Mr. Stanton. I rest my case."


	7. Chapter 7

**Resonance**

 **Chapter Seven**

In the visitation room, Waylon and Clayton sat together upon two creaky chairs at a splintery wooden table, pale light emanating from a solitary lightbulb above while a guard stood by the door.

Clayton tugged at his hair. "How much more of this will I have to take? Just sitting there and listening while they call me every filthy name in the book?"

"Keep your chin up," said Waylon. "The evidence is overwhelming that he's lying about you forcing him."

"But did you see how the jury reacted when Sterling started sobbing? How they glared at me like I'm a – a monster?"

"Mr. Burns is looking for dirt on his family as we speak. He's sure to uncover something."

"I wish I could have your optimistic spirit."

"Have hope, Clayton. Above all, have hope."

After visiting his brother, Waylon headed straight for Burns Manor. There, Burns greeted him and they sipped tea by the fire.

"Well, Mr. Burns? Have you found anything that could help my brother?"

"Sterling's father did violate, ironically enough, the Clayton Act, by engaging in certain exclusive dealings last year."

"Great! But is it enough to get him to incriminate his own son?"

"No, and it doesn't matter, anyway, as he'd never believe I would bring it to light."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"I was one of the ones he was dealing with."

"Oh. Did you find out anything else?"

"I uncovered a photograph of his brother drinking a beer."

"That's the worst thing? I can't believe that someone who'd do something so heinous as frame my brother would've kept his nose squeaky clean."

"I'll attempt to bribe his father. But I doubt he is as avaricious as myself, and he may require greater incentive."

"Please, do everything you possibly can. I promised him we'd keep him out of prison."

"I'll bribe the jury, too. They will acquit him, I assure you. Between my bribes and Clarrow's legendary oratory presence, I guarantee it."

"I hope you're right."

* * *

As court proceeded the following day, the Black-Haired Lawyer called Sterling's brother to take the stand. "Now, Chauncey, you are two years older than Sterling, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir. That's right."

"And you've lived together at the Stanton Estate for his entire life, is that also right?"

"Yes. That's right."

"And in that time, has he ever given you reason to believe he has any unnatural inclinations to others of his sex?"

"No. Never."

"You mean you never, not even once, thought he might have a deviate sexuality?"

"No, never."

"What do you make of Sterling's friends' claims that Clayton was unusually attracted to him?"

"Well, Clayton, we all thought he was a little off. But Sterling hated us pointing it out. He hated that we'd see something twisted about their relationship when he thought it was pure."

After some more questioning, Sterling's father took the stand. "Now, Mr. Stanton," said the Black-Haired Lawyer, "How would you describe your son?"

"He's an upstanding Christian. A gentleman, through and through."

"So you've never seen him exhibit any homosexual tendencies?"

Mr. Burns glared gleefully at him, almost imperceptibly nodding his head.

Sweat dripping from his forehead, he stammered and said, "No. I haven't."

"Big mistake," said Burns in a sinister whisper.

After steadfast denials, the Black-Haired Lawyer dismissed him and called Waylon to the stand. "How well do you know your brother, Mr. Smithers?"

"Very well. As kids, we were pretty much inseparable."

"Has he ever exhibited any violent tendencies or impulsive, lustful actions?"

"No. He's the gentlest man I've ever known."

"So you judged him to have a strong moral character."

"Yes, precisely. I could never believe that he would do something so heinous as this."

"Were you aware that he was a sodomite?"

"I was not aware he had homosexual inclinations until he told me on my graduation day. He always seemed like a normal boy to me. He certainly fit better into the mold of the masculine ideal than I ever did."

"On what day did you graduate?"

"May 27, 1932."

"I'll remind the court that the day Clayton was found engaging in unnatural acts with Sterling was the twenty-eighth of May this year. One day after you found out your brother was deviant."

"Yes, it was a day later."

"Then how can we trust your judgment about his character, when you deemed him a person of strong moral fiber when unbeknownst to you, he was perpetrating an abomination against the laws of God and nature?"

"After he told me, I still judged him to be of sound moral standing."

"Do you mean to say that you don't regard his vile passions as immoral?"

"I don't think they're vile if the man he is with is willing. And I have every reason to believe Sterling was willing."

"So you're telling me that you don't think there's anything wrong with a man lying with another as he would with a woman?"

"No. I don't see anything wrong with it." The people in the court chattered amongst themselves in disbelief.

"Clearly you must have a different idea of morality than the community does, if you think it's acceptable for men to perform these unnatural acts expressly condemned in the Bible."

"Frankly, I don't put a lot of stock into what an assortment of fallible, ignorant men wrote two thousand years ago."

"So you do not regard the Bible as a moral authority?"

"I think that many people use the Bible to live a more moral life. Ultimately, though, that moral authority must come from within. An evil man will cite chapter and verse to justify the institution of slavery; a good man will cite teachings of peace and humility. The Bible is a book; it requires the hand of man to choose which passages to practice and render it moral or immoral."

"Calling the authors of a holy book a bunch of ignorant men betrays a certain level of contempt for it. Are you contemptuous of the Bible?"

"I called them ignorant because they were. Regardless of whatever worth one would ascribe to their various teachings, that's indisputable. They thought the universe was created in seven days, that the Earth was young enough to now be six thousand years old, that the sun revolved around the Earth, and that the creatures of this planet were created as they are as opposed to evolving from more primitive forms. If they were ignorant of all that, then why could they not have been ignorant of people like my brother?"

The judge banged his gavel. "We are not here to try the biblical prescripts against sodomy, lest this become another Scopes monkey trial."

"No one here disputes that my brother engaged Sterling intimately. What is relevant to the court and to which I can attest, is that Sterling was in a romantic relationship with my brother for years."

The Black-Haired Lawyer said, "But wait – I thought you said you only learned of his homosexual inclinations a mere day before he was arrested for sodomy. How could you have known they were in a relationship years beforehand?"

"Because I'd been in denial, but his admission this summer removed all doubt. I remember the exact date I began to realize he was that way – it was September 15, 1928, the night they had met at Mr. Burns' birthday party. When we got home, I picked up the phone to call Mr. Burns, but Clayton was already on the line with Sterling. I heard Sterling invite him to have intercourse following a polo match."

"Oh, really? So you expect us to believe that even after this clear evidence that your brother and his new wealthy socialite friend were in a homosexual relationship, you remained in the dark for nearly four years?"

"Well, I hung up the phone before I could really confirm it, because it unnerved me. But there was no mistaking it – it was a limerick with the word 'chukker,' for crying out loud."

"And this is your sole evidence that Sterling reciprocated your brother's unnatural urges?"

"No. He was late to the dinner table, too."

"Oh, stop the presses! He was late to the _dinner_ table! I guess every parent in America needs to solicit an alienist to treat their children's latent homosexuality."

"They both were late to the table, very late. They had been off together for quite awhile, and they were evasive about where they had been. Clayton told me at the time that he had been on the toilet, but he later told me that that night was when he lost his virginity to Sterling."

"And of course we can rely on his testimony. Do tell us more, and save us some effort by omitting the hearsay."

After some more questioning, Waylon was dismissed. "The next person I call to testify is... Charles Montgomery Burns," he said, looking pointedly at him. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead, the legs of his chair skidding on the floor as he stood. Once he'd reached the podium, the prosecuting attorney addressed him. "Mr. Burns, is it true you procured Clayton's lawyer for him?"

"Yes. I hired Darence Clarrow to defend him."

"Now, why would you be so interested in defending a sexual deviant?"

"Because his brother has told me that Clayton and Stanton were lovers. The allegations of assault are hokum, and I believe an honest man deserves a fair shake at justice."

"And so you hired a high-priced, famous lawyer?"

"Yes."

"This must have cost a lot of money."

"Objection!"

"Sustained," said the judge. "Now, you may continue your inquiry without probing into the legal expenditures of the defense."

"Very well," said the Black-Haired Lawyer. "Mr. Burns, why would you attempt to bribe a jury for the sake of a local pervert?"

"Confound it, I did not 'attempt' to bribe a jury, I succeeded!" The judge and other onlookers gasped, and Clarrow, Clayton, and Waylon slapped their foreheads. Burns glanced nervously around, tugged at his collar, and said, "And by that, I mean... I would never do such a terrible thing."

"Uh-huh. Then perhaps you can explain why Mr. Nimrod Flanders reported that he saw you bribing the jurors last week?"

"I was merely testing them to see whether they would do the honest thing and report me. As it seems one of them did, kudos to you, good fellow."

"Why is it, then, that you are so concerned with the fairness of this trial in particular? When you have consistently fought against the underdog in various court cases against your labor practices, why are you so invested in protecting this confessed sodomite?"

"Because his brother asked for my help, and I owe him. You see, he saved my life in a lab accident last year. I am indebted to him, and he wishes to see his brother get justice, so I am seeing to it as best I can."

Cross-examinations proceeded, and Clarrow proffered his closing statement: "Moral men and women cannot judge a man guilty on the basis of inconsistent testimony from the prosecution that hinges on the rank implausibility of a comparatively slight man overpowering a much larger man when there was no sign of a weapon or intoxication. This young man may not be a pillar of his community, but he is a human being and as such deserves the dignity of a fair trial. A man who seeks out affection from his own sex may be afflicted with some malady of the mind, but he poses no threat to society and should not be subject to the penalties appropriate to a man who coerces the unwilling. He cannot help the way his nature and his upbringing have made him, and it makes as much sense to punish him for his desires as it does to punish a man for wanting water.

"The morally righteous have banged on long and loud about the abomination of consensual intercourse between men, and it is they who most strongly call for this man's condemnation without scrutiny, for those who are most assured of their righteousness are those who are most likely to succumb to their lust for retribution. But this case is not about the rightness or wrongness of the defendant's desires or his decision to act on them. It is about how hatred of an act morphs into hatred of a person. It is about how the fear of being branded a degenerate leads those of weaker moral standing into betrayal. It is about how justice is not possible without love."


	8. Chapter 8

**Resonance**

 **Chapter Eight**

"How could this have happened?" said Waylon, running his fingers through his newly cut hair and looking to Mr. Burns with accusing eyes as they stood outside the courthouse. "You bribed the jury, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did."

"Then why did they render a guilty verdict?"

"Perhaps the Stanton family out-bribed me."

Waylon grew still and quiet as he thought of his brother sitting in jail for years on end. "I told him we'd get him out of this..." His aunts Constance and Maybelle joined him on the steps and hugged him. "Aunt Constance, I promised him..."

"He knows you tried everything you could, dear."

After the recess, they filed back inside the courtroom to hear the sentencing. Waylon looked over to his brother and mouthed the words, "I'm so sorry." Clayton forced half a smile, then nodded and mouthed the words, "That's okay."

The judge banged his gavel. "The defendant, Clayton Smithers, unabashedly admits to his perverse lust for others of his sex, and the facts in hand demonstrate his willingness to betray the trust of a friend to satisfy it. It reveals the moral decay in our society that his own brother defends his indecency and that wealthy men will spring to his defense, claiming he is incapable of directing himself on a natural, righteous path but rather must remain a servant to sin. In consideration of the facts presented here, and in light of his unrepentant attitude and the risk that society will grow complacent and bereft of morals should we grant anything but scorn to such a criminal as him, it is my duty to ensure that he and others like him do not continue to pose a threat. It is with this in mind that although the maximum sentence for the crime of aggravated sodomy is twenty years in prison, I sentence Clayton Smithers to ten years in addition to castration, which I believe will serve as a far more effective deterrent."

At the word "castration," many in the court gasped. Waylon stood up rapidly, his chair skidding as he said, "For the love of God, no!" As the bailiffs guided Clayton away to his cell, Waylon ran up to him and said, "I won't let them do this to you. I swear! We're not sunk yet! We'll file an appeal, and –"

"Stop wasting your time on me," said Clayton, eyes turned to the ground. "We both know it won't do any good, anyway."

"We can't give up now! I refuse to believe the judge is so callous and un–"

"Don't you see? They don't care. To them, I'm just a filthy pervert who's getting what's coming to him."

"I'm not giving up."

"You should, though. Concentrate on your doctoral work. It'd be best if you forget you ever had a brother."

"No, I'll fight for you! I'll fight for you until you're a free man." The bailiffs kept him from following any further. "Clayton! Don't give up, promise me that!"

Clayton simply shook his head, tears welling in his eyes.

Waylon fell to his knees at the doorway of the courtroom as he watched them take his brother away. Mr. Burns approached from behind and patted his shoulder. "I promised him..." He arose, and Burns patted him over the shoulder blade a couple of times before withdrawing.

"We're not licked yet. We still have the appeal."

"I know, but..." His eyes darted to where Sterling still sat in the courtroom, wiping tears from his eyes before landing his head with a thud on the tabletop. "You." He spoke with such a pointed authority that despite Sterling's back facing him, he knew that word was directed at him. "Why are _you_ crying? You're the reason my brother is suffering!"

"It's because – I really thought he liked me before he did this."

"Yeah, well, he really thought you liked him before you did this." He stared straight into his eyes. "Can you really live with what you've done to him? Can you live with being the reason a man who loved you to pieces gets butchered and spends a decade behind bars?"

"I don't have to talk to you," he said, turning away, grabbing his briefcase, and heading for the door.

Mr. Burns approached Sterling's father, Lloyd Stanton. "I was so disappointed you denied your son's history on the stand. You must realize I can't let this go unpunished."

He smirked. "As if you'd incriminate yourself just to get my son in trouble."

"No, I won't reveal our corporate doings to the eyes of lady law. I will, however, reveal information about your corporate operations that your competitors will be delighted to know. You won't be in business much longer."

"Why do you care so much about the fate of the Smithers boy, anyway?"

"It is as I testified on the stand – his brother saved my life in the lab, and I owe it to him."

"Yeah, right. You're not one to feel indebted to anyone for any reason, even if he did save your life. Why really?"

"My reasons are my own."

* * *

Clayton perched himself upon the rickety wooden chair and tied one end of the rope to an overhead beam. He pulled the loop of rope over his head, then clasped his trembling hands together as he whispered in prayer. "This is really how it ends, then." His last sights – a crooked nail sticking out of the end of a warped floorboard dimly lit by a single bulb and the faint shadow of the rope he'd hang by, a fuzzy annulus of execution. He sniffled, thinking of his mother and Waylon and his aunts, who would be horrified to hear that his body had been found hanging in a prison utility closet. And his father... would he even visit his grave? "I'm sorry, Waylon... I just can't have hope. I can't live like this." He felt a chill down his spine, and then an odd sense of serenity. "This is how it ends." He faced his doom with equanimity as he stepped off the chair.

* * *

Clifford Burns, Jr. observed the men walking about in the work areas of Springfield Penitentiary, scrutinizing them, every one of them a potential subject for his experiments. When one of the few surviving heirs to the Burns family fortune had requested a job as a prison guard, they had looked askance at him, but had assented nonetheless. Those who questioned the whims of a Burns had the unfortunate tendency to have misfortunes befall them. "All right," said the nearest prison guard, "time to get back into your cells, now." The men trudged back to their cells, and Cliff went to the nearby utility closet where he disguised his latest formulations as common cleansers.

He opened the door.

Before him, Clayton hung from a rope, his face beginning to turn blue. Cliff grabbed a concealed dagger from a holster in his boot and cut the rope, dropping him down to the ground. He knelt and loosened the rope around his neck, and Clayton inhaled shallowly and desperately. Once he was fully conscious, he said in a hoarse whisper, "Why did you stop me?"

"Now, it can't be as bad as all that, can it?"

"Oh, yes, it is. They're going to castrate me and keep me locked up here for ten years. It can't get much worse than that."

Cliff cringed. "You're Verna's son – Monty's protégé – aren't you? Waylon Smithers?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Waylon's my brother."

"I see. What's your name, young man?"

"Clayton. Clayton Smithers."

"Here's the deal, Clayton – I have an experimental potion that mimics death in whosoever takes it, and I need someone to test to gauge proper dosing. Test it for me, and I can get you out of here." He produced from his jacket a small glass vial with a thimbleful of clear liquid sloshing about inside and handed it to him.

"Is it safe?"

"Safer than hanging."

He nodded and drank from the vial. He was really in no position to doubt the man who had just spared him his life, particularly if he could make it worth living. For a minute, they stared at each other, waiting for something to happen, until Clayton began to convulse briefly, then went still. Clayton checked his pulse and laid a hand on his chest. After an extended time detecting nothing, he caught a heartbeat and slight inhalations. "Excellent!" He laid the noose over Clayton's head, then burst the door open and hollered for another guard to note that a prisoner was dead by his own hand.

* * *

"...And this evidence is incompatible with the gamma ray hypothesis. This is what Dr. Chadwick surmises is a new, neutral particle, or neutron," said Dr. Arnold Frink.

A man opened the door to the seminar room. "Telegram for a Mr. Waylon Smithers."

Waylon raised his hand, and the courier approached him and handed him the yellow envelope.

"Excuse me," said Dr. Frink, "Is it necessary you interrupt my lecture for this?"

"I'm afraid so," said the courier. "It says it's urgent."

Waylon unfolded the paper. "He's dead?" As he read, his hands began to shake as he unconsciously lowered the paper. "He killed himself?" The paper crumpled as he brought his hands together and started to cry into it. "Excuse me. I have to go." He left the seminar room and sat in his car, where he began to cry in earnest. He wanted to go see his aunt Constance and Maybelle, but he didn't want to be the one to tell them. He didn't want to deal with any callous remarks from his father, but he wouldn't be home yet for an hour or more.

He pulled into the drive of his family home and rang the bell. A moment later, his mother greeted him with a teary hug. "Mom..."

"This is all my fault..."

"No, don't think that way. This was Sterling's fault. This was the jury's and the judge's faults. And Dad is the one who disowned him, not you."

"I should've been there for him."

"What's done is done. Just... I hope to heaven there is such a thing, because it's what he deserves."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

Mr. Burns sat in his study, poring over financial reports, scheming ways to cut corners and turn as much of a profit as was possible during the steep dip in the economy, when his telephone rang.

"Mr. Smithers is at the gate, sir," said his butler over the phone.

"Yes, thank you, Winston. Send him in."

Minutes passed, and he half-heartedly reviewed his papers, impatiently awaiting Waylon's arrival. He had found his unexpected visit an intrusion, but since his time had already been interrupted, he found it pointless to focus on his work while knowing he was soon to be interrupted again anyway.

And then he heard a hollow rapping at his door.

"Come in, Smithers," said Burns. "It's open." There was silence and stillness for a few seconds, and then the lustrous brass door knob turned in an irresolute fashion, and the heavy oaken door eased open, Waylon standing at the entryway. "I am rather busy at this moment, so whatever you've come here for, it had better be worth my time."

"Clayton is dead." Burns' eyes widened as Waylon dropped his chin to his chest. "He hanged himself."

"Have a seat," he said, standing and gesturing to a gilded eighteenth century armchair upholstered with red silk positioned beside his desk. As Waylon drifted his way into the chair, Burns picked up his phone's receiver and spoke into it. "Winston, send in some tea."

Wincing, Waylon said, "If I could've talked to him, maybe I could've talked him out – we still had the appeal, why couldn't he hold on just a little while longer...?"

"I'm terribly sorry for your loss," said Burns, brows wrinkling in genuine empathy as he faced him, resting a hand on his shoulder. "May I offer you a peppermint, or some such?" He gestured to the small glass candy bowl on his desk.

"No, thank you." Waylon braced himself to maintain his composure against a cascade of tears only for him to realize there was nothing left to fight against. He had already been drained of the tears he had left to give, all driven out in rivulets across his cheek and his mother's shoulder, their unremitting expulsion enervating and anesthetizing him. _How could my fellow countrymen have condemned my brother? Is the world really this awful? Is this godforsaken species completely irredeemable?_ "Mr. Burns," said Waylon, who only then noticed Burns' hand on his shoulder.

"Yes."

"Do you believe there is a heaven?"

 _Regardless, I'm sure hell is much more fun._ "Yes, Waylon." Burns embraced him. "And I'm sure your brother is at peace, now."

Chest quivering with the tension of feeling as though he needed to cry but being unable to, he shook his head. "What peace is there in extinguishing a loving soul?"

Winston, a stout, balding man, silently entered the room and said, "Your tea, Mr. Burns," and carried the tray of tea to the desk before swiftly leaving the room.

"Have some tea," said Burns, parting from him and grasping a cup of tea and accompanying saucer. "Milk and sugar?" Not getting a response, he spooned a bit of sugar and poured a little milk from the dispenser on the tray and handed the cup to Smithers. "Drink up, friend."

"I don't normally take milk in my tea," he said, taking the slightest of sips. He slurped a bit more of it. "I like it, though."

"He seemed a good man, your brother. Alas, in this world, good men never prosper."

"You are quite prosperous, sir."

"If you take me for a good man, you would be mistaken." He sipped of the other cup of tea.

"How could I have let this happen...?"

Burns set his tea on the tray. "Come, now. You speak as if you were the older brother."

"But I was the one who had the power to get him out of there."

"Clearly, you didn't."

"How does life go from joyous and brimming with endless possibilities to having a family torn apart, dreams and lives ended? My brother, such a lively person – dead. I can't think of anything more absurd." He tapped his fingers against the armrest and looked to Burns' desk. "Do you have any cigarettes?"

"It's a filthy habit."

"A filthy habit for a filthy world."

Burns rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a pair of cigars. "Fine Cuban cigars. I received them as a gift from a fellow who owned a cigarette factory there." He clipped the ends, then struck a match and lit the end of Smithers' cigar, then his own, and each inhaled, drew the cigar away from his lips, then languidly exhaled in unison. They exchanged few glances and fewer words as they smoked in silence.

Burns' telephone rang, and he picked it up. "Ahoy-hoy?"

"Sir, your brother Clifford is here," said Winston.

"That impudent wretch; what does he want?"

"He says he has urgent business with you."

"Very well." He set his cigar on the ash tray on his desk. "I must see what my brother thinks is so urgent. You are welcome to stay here until my return." He headed for the door, stopping for just a moment to turn back and see Waylon still sitting and staring fixedly out the window behind Burns' desk, cigar perched between index and middle finger as he slowly exhaled.

He strode down the great hall, offering a listless, "All right, what is it?" as he neared his brother.

"You'll see in a moment's time," said Cliff. He turned his head to the door and called out, "Bring my trunk in!" A pair of men in overalls carried in his traveler trunk and set it on the floor in the doorway. Cliff looked back to Burns and grinned mischievously. "You know that formula we began work on at Yale?"

Burns rolled his eyes. "Are you still tinkering with that death mimicry potion? How many dead frogs will it take before you give it up?"

"Oh, no, I'm well past experimenting with frogs, dogs, or even hogs. I've hit upon the real McCoy."

"Poppycock. You've said that a dozen times."

"This time it really is true."

"Don't waste my time on your shenanigans."

"All right, I'll prove it. Prepare to be astounded – wait, which way to the facilities?" He clutched at his stomach.

"Down that hall, twenty-third door to the left."

He ran down the hall, muttering, "I knew I shouldn't have had that prison shrimp!"

Burns scoffed. "Imbecile." He walked back to his study, where Waylon still sat, cigar in hand. "Waylon, if you'd like to come downstairs with me, my brother has some heavy baggage. It might take your mind off your troubles to carry them in." He set his cigar on the ashtray and followed Burns down to the entrance of the great hall, where he saw a large trunk and several briefcases sitting on the threshold. He brought the briefcases inside and leaned them against the interior wall, then grabbed the handle of one end.

"Good, you keep busy with that. I'll go see that my brother has reached the lavatory." He walked down the hall, and Waylon began to tug at the trunk, but he found it very heavy and slow to move. He pulled with greater force, only to realize that he was jeopardizing his back. "What does he have in here, gold bricks?" He undid the leather straps and noted the lock. He looked around the room and saw a thin flash of bronze in the hall. He walked down the hall to find it was a key that looked to match the lock. He carried it back to the trunk and turned the key in the lock. He placed the key in his pants pocket, then opened the trunk and promptly fainted.

When he awoke, he saw Clayton looking over him and noted there was some cloth between the back of his head and the cold tile floor. "Clayton! You're not – I thought you killed –" He pulled himself upright and hugged Clayton, tears dripping from his eyes as he pressed them tightly shut.

Clayton brought his arms around Waylon and said, "I almost did. But Mr. Burns' brother saved me."

"Don't try that again."

"It's okay, I won't. Cliff is helping me escape." He took his wool cap from the floor where Waylon's head had been.

Burns walked in with Cliff, who shut the front door. "So," said Cliff, "I see you've met my test subject."

"Test subject?" said Waylon in dismay.

"You're Waylon, aren't you?" said Cliff. Waylon nodded. "The other day, I found your brother hanging from a rope by his neck –"

"Dear God!"

"–but no worry, as he's clearly all right now. I administered an experimental potion to temporarily stay the signs of life so as to mimic death. I showed him to the other guards so they'd think he really was dead, and the doctor examined him and put him into a body bag. I took his body out of the bag, replaced it with cabbages and sacks of potatoes, then got him into my trunk. You're lucky they didn't insist on an autopsy, kid."

Clayton said, "I can't thank you enough for saving my life, Cliff."

"And thank you for helping me get the dosage right."

"So, where do I go from here? I can't just go back in town; they'll throw me back in jail."

Mr. Burns said, "We can send you across the country with a new identity."

"I'd hate to be so far away from Waylon and my aunts, but I guess that's what I'll have to do."

"Wait," said Waylon. "What if they make up phony papers for you, but instead you go live in Uncle Wayland's old cabin? You can hunt and farm like you've always wanted to, and I'll visit you every week and bring anything in from the city you need? Then, if you ever do decide to live in a city, you can go take a train out to Ogdenville. You can always telephone your address, and I'd visit you."

"You'd do that for me?"

"Of course." He hugged Clayton again.

"I'll have people doctor some papers for you. They should be ready in a few days. In the meantime, you may stay in one of my guest rooms. Waylon, see him to his bedroom."

"Which one, sir?"

"The one I showed you the day you first sought my help on your brother's behalf."

"I know the one you mean. Come with me, Clayton."

As they left, Cliff said, "That Waylon is a fine young man."

"Very fine. Almost worthy of being a Burns."

"A little more than 'almost.'"

"So you see it, too?"

"How could I not? I _am_ the boy's real father."

Monty dropped his jaw, then forced a chuckle and said, "Good one! You almost had me, there."

"I'm not joking. Back at Yale, I had a torrid affair with his mother, Verna. We were oscillating the unmentionables on a nightly basis. It's a wonder I passed any of my exams. Elzy, the poor bastard, hardly got the chance to knock boots with her at all."

Monty looked back down the hall. "It can't be..."

"It's true. I even kept one of the letters she wrote me."

He pulled one out of his breast pocket and handed it to Monty, who began reading, growing increasingly sick and dizzy. The words blurred and danced on the page, and Cliff's voice echoed in his mind as the world faded to white.

When he awoke, Waylon had his hand on his forehead and Cliff discreetly slid the love note out of Monty's hands. Monty struggled away from Waylon, swiping his hand away. "Leave me be! Go tend to your brother." He averted his eyes from Waylon, instead staring fixedly into the fringes of the carpet he was lying on. As Waylon headed for his brother's room, Monty said, "Wait! Waylon, what's your blood type?"

"I'm afraid I don't know that, sir. Why?"

"Well, it would be useful to know if your blood is compatible with mine should an emergency arise. You are to submit to testing as soon as possible. Now, run along." Once Waylon was out of earshot, he told Cliff, "You are going to find out his mother's blood type, or I'll tell Elzy about your affair."

"And he'd believe you... why?"

Monty produced the love letter from his jacket pocket. "I took it back from you when you weren't looking. Now, you are also to deliver to me the father's blood type."

"What has possessed you, Monty?"

"If medical evidence can show that Waylon is not my nephew, I need to see it."

"Why?" The silent response to his question clued him in, and he began to slowly, knowingly nod. "You sent Clayton to your old bedroom where father caught you with Otis, didn't you? You have that inclination towards Waylon, don't you?"

"You're talking out of your ass, Cliff, just as your namesake so often did."

"Oh, don't turn this bitterness on me or father. For what other reason would you react with such horror and disgust to find that an upstanding, intelligent... attractive young man is your nephew."

"Shut up!"

"What other embarrassment could so handicap your verbal faculties, reducing you to childish retorts as that one?" He glanced admiringly into a mirror. "But then, of course my progeny would be irresistible."

"Leave! And don't return until you have the information I require."

"Oh, all right," he said, taking his briefcases and trunk outside.

Burns slammed the doors, then leaned back against them and slid to the ground. "No, he can't be; he looks so much like Winfield... At least we never... What a whoreson I've been."


End file.
